


A Boy Named Betty

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1950's, Boy!Betty, Confusion, Dilton is a dick in this story, F/F, Gearhead!Betty, Internalized Homophobia, Lobotomy (mentioned), M-M sex, M/M, McCarthyism in Riverdale, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-typical gay conversion therapy, Sexual Identity, btw Miss Grundy is the comics!version because she was bad-ass, genderbent, implied F-F sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-07-14 01:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: It's 1958, and Riverdale seems stuck in time. However, Jughead's world changes when he meets Betty, Fred Andrew's new mechanic.He can't feel this way about a boy, right?





	1. Chapter 1

Jughead lurches as he descends from the old Chevy and heads into Andrews' Auto Repair. The whiskeys he downed the night before buzz in his brain, and he shakes his head at the annoying insect of his hangover.

He’s still annoyed with himself for getting so drunk, for riding down Main street with the usual parade, for being a jerk to the girl he asked out. Trula doesn’t deserve his bullshit, not when she got all dressed up in a swing skirt and off-the-shoulder ruffles. Other guy would be falling over themselves to get Trula to Sweetwater River's Lookout Point.

This was the third time he's made excuses to avoid parking with a date. He likes women, but somehow hamburgers seem more important.

Jughead groans and blindly feels for the bottle of aspirin Fred Andrews keeps in the tiny vestibule that serves as a waiting room for the shop. “Tough night?” Archie asks sympathetically. 

“You just don’t know.” Dry-swallowing some aspirin, Jughead jerks his head at gray Chevy in Fred's stamp-sized lot. “Okay if I leave my steed here for a patch job?”

“Sure. Just let Betty know.”

“Betty.” Jughead frowns. “Who the hell is Betty?”

“New mechanic.” Archie points into the bowels of the shop just as the phone by his elbow rings.  _Go ahead,_  he mouths, and picks up the receiver. “Andrews Repair! We've got lube and inner tubes! You mix ‘em, we fix ‘em!”

Grinning, Jughead wanders past the old pin-up 1949 calendar into the shop. As usual, the place smells like oil and musty car upholstery. There’s an Indian motorcycle in the far bay, and the mechanic on duty is peering into its innards. The old radio plays Pink Pedal Pushers to the accompaniment of Jerry Lee Lewis's piano and metal on metal. As Jughead approaches, the mechanic starts to whistle along. This, he decides, must be Betty.

Jughead’s about to say Hey and ask if Betty can take a look at his rear tire, when the world slides out of focus and everything changes.

Betty curses, drops a wrench, and leans over the Indian to retrieve it. Jughead sees blond hair, a few top strands held neatly back with a black rubber-band. Grease stains grace one soft elbow. Baggy denims are cinched around a slim waist with a wide leather belt.

Above them, Jughead sees nothing but pale, silky skin. Betty, it appears, isn’t wearing a shirt.

The town of Riverdale is secure in its 50’s era Americana. Everyone goes to the local high school. Students graduate into secretary schools (the girls) or union jobs (boys.) Each night the kids ride down Main Street and stop at Pops for a milkshake. On Fridays, there’s a lot of necking at the Twilight Drive-In or Lookout Point.

In all his 18 years, Jughead has never seen a female mechanic - let alone a topless one.

He’s kissed his fair share of dates, almost rounded home base with Toni until one of them actually fell asleep before it happened. He's woken up with wet drawers in a classic example of what the health pamphlet handed out in gym class called ‘nocturnal emissions.' Those nights leave impressions of strange dreams, a pale body wound around him, a strong hand pushing his head down to a musky and unknown place.

But he’s never felt fire in his guts, lightning raging through him, a complete and wrenching cockstand at the first sight of a girl. That is, not until Betty.

Betty bends further over the Indian, twisting to peer at the engine. Jughead sees in a moment of cold horror that the mechanic isn’t a girl at all. The kid's chest is flat, pale and smooth. As he turns the wrench, one ray of sun catches the gold of his hair and turns it into fire.

It’s a boy. Mr. Andrews’s new hire is a boy named Betty.

Jughead releases a long, silent whistle. Thank goodness he didn’t say anything like _Hey there, beautiful, wanna Coke from the vending machine?_ His face flames just thinking about it.

“Any chance you can look at my tire?” he calls.

The effect is electric. Betty looks up and slams his head on the motorcycle's handlebars. “Blast! Damn it to bloody hell!” The kid adds a few choice words that would make Gladys throw her peep-toe heel if she were in the shop with them.

Raising both hands, Jughead approaches. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Back there – the phone rang – uh, Archie said…”

The boy called Betty stops rubbing his scalp and swoops to pick up the wrench with a swift lunge. Jughead can see ripples of muscle on the kid’s slender belly as he straightens. “S’okay. Just got thinking about a book I read and lost track of my setting… forget it. What did you need again?”

Jerking one thumb at the parking lot, Jughead repeats his request. Last night's whiskey has turned his brain into a buzzing hive. "Nice bike," he adds, and curses himself. Indian motorcycles are living art, human genius in metal form.

Betty nods and runs one reverent hand over the chipped crimson paint. It makes Jughead shudder suddenly as if those fingers, strong yet gentle, had just touched his own flesh. _I have to stop,_ he thinks fiercely. _Betty’s a guy. Anyone could have made the same mistake. Why is he called Betty, anyway? Why didn’t Archie explain? It’s all his fault. I'm not a fairy or anything…_

“Sorry?” He’s missed Betty’s question. “What did you say?”

“I saw this beauty in Poughkeepsie and just couldn't resist.” Betty squats by the rear wheel. “I still need to assess the magneto, though, plus her carburetor really should be rebuilt.”

"Book?” Jughead mutters.

"What?" Puzzlement pleats Betty's forehead. His eyebrows are so delicate they might be painted on with the finest of brushes.

Jughead clears his throat. “Book? Sorry, you said you were thinking about a book?”

Betty smiles and looks up in his face. “It was one of the best novels I ever read, but you'd probably disagree.”

Jughead shoves both hands in his pockets. “Why? What's the book called?”

A shade crosses Betty’s eyes, something sad and resigned as though he’s reviewing a bloody murder scene, and he steps back. “ _Maurice._ But it's on the forbidden reading list.”

#

"A book by E. M. Forster?" Miss Grundy spears Jughead with a sharp look before picking up a date stamp and slamming it onto the top library card. The white bun waggles on her neck with the effort. "Fiction under F. For Forster."

"Got it." Jughead plucks a pencil out of the cup and drums the eraser end on the librarian's table, earning himself a raised brow and a pointed sniff. "Thing is, d'you see, I heard this book I want is on the forbidden reading list." Miss Grundy doesn't move, and he finds more words falling out of his dumb mouth. "If there is such a thing. Someone told me there was - Betty. Betty told me there was. The same person who told me about the book. So of course my curiosity was piqued, and I thought, Who can help me with this dilemma? Aha, I said. Miss Grundy, that's who." He laughs without mirth and feels sweat prickle under his beanie.

"Perhaps we could start with the title of the book, Forsythe." Miss Grundy stamps one final card, slaps the stack together into a perfect paper brick, and puts it in the exact center of her desk. 

"Yes! Of course. Uh, _Maurice,_ like the name?"

"Are you asking or telling me?"

Grundy's severity calms the panic surging in Jughead's chest. " _Maurice,_ " he repeats. "Any chance you have it to hand, not in a lead-lined bunker guarded by a cadre of Beafeaters?"

Miss Grundy doesn't answer. She spins in her wooden chair, stands, and marches toward the back of the library. "Follow me," she calls.

Jughead nearly drops his keys to run after her. They pass by rows of books, most deserted but some dotted with browsing readers. One little girl with hair tied up like mouse ears reads _Spiderweb for Two._ A very large man rifles through the a copy of _True Grit._ Next to him, a skeletal student in a green beret staggers under a huge pile of volumes.

The librarian ignores them. Her sensible lace-ups tap through the hushed room until she stops at the far end in front of a small shelf. It's enclosed in glass with a brass lock on the bottom.

"Forbidden books section?" Jughead hazards.

"Humph!" Miss Grundy produces a huge ring from nowhere, stabs a tiny key into the lock, and turns it with a satisfactory click. "Forbidden books. I never heard of such a thing. My esteemed grandpapa allowed me to read anything I wanted, just like C. S. Lewis's father did to his son, and he managed to survive. How about freedom of speech, I ask you? What's The United States of America for if writers can't have complete freedom? And readers? Furthermore, _Maurice_ was written by the author of _Howard's End_ and _A Passage to India_! Rrrrridiculous!" In her anger, she rolls the R like a tiger shielding her young.

Unsure of what to say, Jughead tries to school his features into an expression of sympathy and understanding. Grundy ignores him and selects a red leather book before locking the case and heading back to the front. "Forbidding books is for Victorian guardians and misogynistic governments," she brays over her shoulder.She's not exactly a typical librarian, the kind who's ready to shush passing airplanes and earthquakes.

He hands over his library card and waits for her to sign out the book. The library seems dim with afternoon light, almost greenish like a human aquarium. The room is filled with the scent of old paper and leather, an intensely comforting smell. Outside he can hear the rumble of the late bus.

"There." Miss Grundy hands over _Maurice_ and folds her arms. "Now, take care of that contraband or I'll have to flay you alive."

Jughead simply can't hold back. He plants one palm next to Grundy's date-stamp, leans over, and plants a loud kiss on the librarian's cheek.

#

Toni takes a wet plate from Jughead, dries it with an expert flick of her towel, and puts it on her stack. “You met the new guy?

Jughead washes one final sundae dish and hands it over. “You heard about Betty already? I just met him yesterday.”

“Are you kidding? New boy in town after a century of the same old sheiks? Party lines are chirping in every parlor in Riverdale. Penny says she’s going to drive over a couple of boulders just to have an excuse to eye him up. Midge plans to wear her new dotted swiss and go for an oil change. And Dilton thinks his ponytail might be the start of a Communist agenda. Poor Betty,” she adds with feeling.

“And that's another thing. Why is he called Betty?” The dull anger that’s brewed since what Jughead now considers a betrayal finally spills over. “He couldn’t be a Sam, or a Doug, or a Bill? What’s wrong with Bill? Perfectly good name.”

“Well.” Toni fists both hips, her precursor to gossip worthy of Scheherazade. “I heard Betty's mother thought she was expecting a girl. Had a cousin confirm it with a wedding ring pendulum? Ever hear of that? No? Never mind. Anyway, she picked out the name Elizabeth. And apparently Mrs. Cooper is so stubborn she refused to change when it was a boy after all.”

"Ugh." To banish that appalling thought, Jughead has to dig into his pocket and produce a stash of Jaw Busters. Toni accepts one, and in thoughtful silence they suck their candies.

“What’s going on?” Pop bursts into the kitchen, arms laden with more dirty dishes.

“New cowboy in town,” Jughead explains. “A boy named Betty. Toni’s explaining the story.”

“Betty, huh? Well, can’t be worse than Pop.” He winks at them, deposits the dishes into the sink, and begins to pluck ingredients from a shelf. “Now, let’s see – for the best chili in town, we need cayenne pepper and just a touch of my secret magic.”

“It’s cinnamon,” Toni stage-whispers and dodges Pop’s fake punch.

“What does this Betty fella look like?” Pop seizes a knife and begins to chop an onion into wafer-thin slices.

Jughead swallows his first answer (like an angel when the sunlight hits his hair just right) and concentrates on the fork he’s scrubbing. “Tow-headed chap. Long locks scraped back into a ponytail on top.”

“Can you believe there's a boy with a ponytail in town?” Toni gasps in delight. “Maybe he’s one of those yippies Grampa was telling me about, the ones who swarm out of San Francisco these days. No wonder Dilton thinks Betty is a Commie.”

“Don’t see the problem with short back-and-sides myself.” Pop pushes the onion into a large pot with one flourish of his knife. “But there’s a customer in the back booth fitting that description, just ordered a strawberry milkshake…”

Toni doesn’t wait. “Out of my way, Jones,” she hisses, pushing past him on her way out of the kitchen.

He’s about to tell her to take a long walk off a short pier when Jughead freezes. The door swings open, and he sees Betty in the back of the diner. He’s wearing his signature ponytail, which accentuates the severe cut of his jaw. Any movie star would kill to have bone structure like that.

At least Betty’s wearing a shirt this time, open at the collar and with cuffs neatly rolled. Easy to spot, since he’s got one arm propped along the back of the booth.

There’s a girl tucked into his side, one Jughead doesn’t recognize. The redhead holds her chin at a proud angle, giving her the look of an insufferable duchess who likes to hunt peasants with her borzois on long weekends. He feels his back go up with instant irritation. _Betty has a girlfriend?_

“Who’s that?”

“Betty.” Jughead rounds on Toni. “Don’t you ever pay attention when I’m talking? You’re such a chowderhead sometimes, Topaz.”

She sucks in breath. "I actually meant..."

Betty sees them and stands up the booth to wave both arms as though they’re on shore and he’s in a sinking canoe. “Hi, Jughead!” He turns to the redhead beside him. “This is Jughead.”

“So I gather,” she sniffs.

Toni hits Jughead on the arm. “This is simply too good, come on.” One raisin-sized fist twines in Jughead’s apron, and she drags him across the diner.

“We have hash to sling... oh, forget it.” Weakly, Jughead follows her to the back of the diner.

“Hello and all that.” Toni slides into the booth, laces her fingers, and stares at the redhead. “Now I simply have to know who you are.”

“This is Cheryl, my cousin.” Betty sits and settles his ponytail, perhaps feeling he's made a bit of a scene.

“Very distant,” Cheryl insists. “Almost as distant as this little hamlet is from any vestige of decent society.”

“Cher,” Betty protests. “You’re exaggerating, as usual. Riverdale has the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted, for a start. Plus everyone’s so friendly…” He catches Jughead’s eye and blushes, his elegant cheekbones dusting with rose.

“I lived in a castle before we were forced out of New York.” Cheryl’s voice breaks through Jughead’s reverie. “An actual castle brought over stone by stone from Italy. My room had mullion windows overlooking knots of old apple trees in a formal garden. You can’t find anything like it in the world – certainly not in the Town with Pep.”

“Come to the movies,” Toni blurts. “I want to hear all about your house, your life. Everything. The Twilight’s a drive-in, so no one will care if we talk.”

“I found a copy of Maurice,” Jughead murmurs.

"Oh!" Betty's smile is glorious. "I should have known you'd consider that a challenge."

"Why, do I seem like the kind of guy who's ready to fight duels and tilt at windmills?"

"WIndmills, no. Duels maybe. Want to meet for a beer and talk about the book when you're finished with it?" Betty's eyes are direct, a flash of green.

“Maybe.” Jughead knows he’s hedging for form’s sake. Of course he’ll meet up with the kid - he still has to pick up the Chevy, after all.

He sits next to Toni, who’s across from Betty, who’s next to Cheryl. They’re talking across each other, the two girls and the boys, and for a moment he feels like their separate conversations create an X. Perhaps it marks the spot. Maybe it's a signature. Or treasure on an old map.

Or a kiss.

“We have to get back to work.” Jughead clatters to his feet, nearly overturning Cheryl’s cherry Coke.

Behind him, Toni shimmies out of the booth and points at Cheryl. “Movies,” she declares. “Friday night.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The movie is Rebel Without a Cause, the third time Jughead has seen it. “What?” he demands when Toni points this out. “The story’s amazing and true, not a sugar-laden musical about brothers collectively seeking a bevy of brides.”

“Exactly,” Betty says from the back seat. “It’s realistic.” As usual, he’s got one arm around Cheryl. Jughead feels dumb about asking exactly what their relationship is beyond ‘being cousins.’ First cousins? Kissing cousins?

Toni doesn’t worry about social mores. She blurts out the question, “Are you two an item?”

“Absolutely not,” Cheryl sniffs.

“Cheryl and I have an understanding,” Betty explains. “I keep the wolves at bay, and she does the same for me.”

“What, she chases off the long lines of girls who are sniffing at your heels?” Toni shakes her head. “No guy I know ever complained about that, other than … well. Other than Jughead here.”

“Hey, want some food?” Jughead doesn't want to talk about relationships, and he's never felt so tired in his life. The night before his parents were up after midnight in a huge battle, making Jellybean cry until she couldn’t breathe. It took until dawn to get his sister back to sleep. He smothers a yawn and tries not to think about whiskey.

“Ooh, that’s a great idea. Isn’t that a great idea? Could you and Betty bring us some nonpareils?” Toni begs.

“Red Hots,” Cheryl sulks.

“Well, I was thinking about burgers and Black ‘n’ Whites.” Jughead forces his eyes open, thinking food might wake him up. “Come on, Betts, let’s go raid the Refreshment Stand.”

Betty nods and climbs out of the old Chevy. As the two boys head towards the lighted oasis of the burger hop, Jughead sees Toni swing out of her seat into the back and plunk next to Cheryl. “Guess they’re going to talk about us,” he adds.

“Probably.” Betty walks past cars of courting couples without turning to peer in the windows, his back straight as a courtier riding into battle. Like Jughead, he’s cleaned up for the movie date in black pants with a sharp crease. His shirt is tucked in neatly, but at some point he’s rolled both sleeves to reveal those muscled arms. Betty’s ponytail bobs against the collar, a splash of gold on shadow.

Jughead fumbles out a cigarette and holds it between his teeth. _Might as well grab a smoke,_ he thinks. At that moment he feels unusually shy, as though he doesn’t know what to say to a boy named Betty.

They get into line, and Betty thrusts one hand in his pocket. “It’s on me,” he states. “Got paid today, so I’m flush.”

“In that case I’ll have the double.” And there it is, the easy banter that seems to spring between them. Betty nudges Jughead with one elbow and asks where he puts it all, in a hollow leg? And does he want fries with that as well as an ice-cream soda?

“Why not?” Jughead breathes out a long plume of smoke and gestures at the stars with his cigarette. “It’s a summer night, no place else to be, might as well celebrate.”

“I can think of somewhere else to be.”

At those quiet words, Jughead looks up into Betty’s green eyes. The boy’s look is intent as though he’s searching for treasure. “Where is that,” Jughead asks. It’s not really a question. The words are too hushed, too intimate, for two greasemonkeys standing in line at the Drive-In to bring back food for their dates.

Betty’s lips part. Before he can answer, five feet of righteous anger inserts itself between them. “Just where do you get off sporting a communist fringe?” Dilton’s chest heaves with fury, and his spectacles are misted from the humid heat. It gives him a strange, other-worldly look, as if he’s a large insect escaped from one of those alien movies the Twilight shows on Thursdays. He stabs one finger at Betty’s shirt pocket. “We don’t put up with yippies here, in case you wondered. Riverdale is a sound bastion of American Puritanism.”

“I haven’t had a chance to find the barbershop yet.” Betty is calm, but his frame tightens as though he’s prepping for flight. “We had a busy move into town and I had to find a job, so I guess my appearance suffered as a result. Thanks so much for the reminder, uh, mister.”

“Dilton Doiley. Head of the Adventure Scouts and proud patriot.”

The kid ignores Betty’s outstretched hand and deliberately cuts the line in front of them, but Jughead is having none of that. He fists Dilton’s bolo tie, pulls him away from the window, and shoves his face so close their noses touch. “We were next for burgers. Do that again and I’ll stuff that Adventure Scout flag down your gullet. Oh, and treat my friend with respect or it’ll be the worse for you.” Dilton draws breath, but Jughead shoves him away from the snack line. “No, not tonight. Get the hell out of here.”

Dilton’s glasses don’t move, which is a bit unnerving. Jughead has the idea the kid is taking in him and Betty while doing some complicated calculus in his head to come up with a wrong answer, and it makes Jughead’s blood boil over. “Hit the road!” he snarls, and Dilton backs off so quickly he trips on a parking bumper and nearly falls. His arms windmill for a minute before he rights himself and stalks off.

Snickering, Jughead approaches the window. “Dispatching the riff-raff always gives me an appetite. I’ll have a couple of jumbo burgers with the works, fries, coupla chocolate sodas. Sound good to you?” Betty nods, and Jughead holds up two fingers to Midge, who’s working the snack bar. “Double that, please.”

“Sure thing. Want anything from the Coolerator while you wait, fellas?” Midge smiles, teeth white against her crimson lipstick.

“Just the burgers.” Betty slaps a few bills on the bar and takes a number from Midge. In silence they move to the sitting wall where a couple of students are necking or watching the movie play out in silence. Jughead shoots the mechanic a few looks and finally sighs. “All right, out with it. What are you thinking about?”

“Sorry.” Betty bites his lower lip with white, sharp teeth. “People like that kid can be – dangerous.”

“Dilton?” Jughead pulls down both corners of his mouth. “He’s a zero with a capital Z. Did you see the way he nearly landed on his Poughkeepsie?”

“I’ll get a haircut first thing,” Betty murmurs as if to himself. “Should have done it weeks ago, but we had to pay the rent. Plus,” he admits, “I got sidetracked by the Indian motorcycle.”

“How’s that coming along?”

Betty’s face lights with enthusiasm, and he begins to describe an old magneto found in the junkyard for a song. “Just need to clean it up and then I can really start to work on the engine. I could have it on the road by month’s end if I look sharp.”

Idly, Jughead flicks their ticket number with one fingernail. “Well, I want a ride.”

“Do you…” Betty hesitates and then speaks in a rush. “Do you want to hang out in the garage tomorrow while I prep the engine? I’ll bring beers and sandwiches, and there’s a good radio show at three.”

Suddenly there’s nothing Jughead wants more. “Sounds good.” He’ll bring his notebook and the ragged copy of Maurice. Archie can join them. They’ll sit and be stupid together in the musty freedom of Andrews Garage, and maybe later the three of them can go swimming.

Midge interrupts his thoughts by calling their number, and Jughead picks up the warm cardboard box. It’s spangled with grease and smells like salt and ice cream and heaven.

But as he hands the box through the Chevy window to Toni, Jughead sees Dilton in the parking lot next to a new Cadillac. He’s in the middle of a long conversation with Reggie of all people, hands waving in emphasis. Reggie looks over at Jughead and frowns as though he’s just seen a ghost.

No, it’s not quite a ghost, Jughead muses. Reggie’s expression is the dismayed horror of someone who opens his eyes to discover he’s lying next to a corpse.

#

“So. _Maurice_ ,” Betty says. “What did you think of it?”

The truck idles in front of the Cooper house, the yellow light from the nearest streetlamp frosting the windshield. Toni has gone inside with Cheryl for a sleepover. Jughead lolls in the driver’s seat, one wrist slung on the steering wheel. He’s still full from an epic round of fries and burgers. The world seems hazy, one step away from a dream.

“Oh, yeah. It’s good. Can’t put it down.” The truth is Jughead hasn’t gone beyond the first chapter. Their night at the Twilight has been the first chance he’s had to get away from the Jones soap opera.

“The main character is riveting. I was sucked in right away. He seemed so proper on the surface, but underneath…”

Jughead lets his eyes close. “Maurice is searching, right? I could relate to that. Looking for something or someone, when perhaps all along the answer is inside…” The words bubble out of him. At this point he’s so tired he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Maybe exhaustion has loosened his tongue.

“The answer is inside,” Betty repeats. “I like that.”

“Do you?” Jughead opens one eye and smiles.

They’re suspended in that moment, Jughead and Betty and the yellow streetlamp. A breeze curls its fingers into his hair, and a couple of bats flutter in the trees like a pair of leather gloves.

And then things move very quickly.

Betty surges forward and smoothes one hand up Jughead’s thigh to whisper in his ear, “I do.”

“Holy Mother of God and all the apostles!” Jughead wakes up with a vengeance. He jerks away from Betty, pushing the blond mechanic. His breath comes in quick, startled bursts. “What gave you the idea I’m a fairy-boy? Take your hand off my leg and stick it up your ass.”

The kid is already opening the door and sliding out of the seat. “My mistake,” he says. “Believe me, it won’t happen again. You – you can punch me if you want.”

“I just might.”

Slapping the side of Jughead’s Chevy, Betty stands and retreats into the darkness. “Read Maurice,” he calls out. “For real this time.”

#

Jughead’s dreams are warm and liquid. He swims through rivers of sweet syrup, buoyed by the need to save a victim at the edge of his vision. Just as the person’s about to go down for the third time, Jughead grasps one arm and hauls him out on the left bank of Sweetwater.

Betty lies among the reeds and rushes, wet hair plastered to his skull. Someone has clipped the blond locks with vicious violence. One of his cheekbones is purple, a painful plum where he took a punch. Matching bruises circle his neck and dot the sharp jawline.

“Who did this?” Jughead demands. “I’ll fucking kill them. I’ll kick them into next week. No one touches you except me.”

Green eyes snap open. “Worth it,” Betty whispers. He slides both arms around Jughead’s neck and pulls him into a slow and luxurious kiss, slick with river and slightly chapped lips. With a start, Jughead realizes they’re both naked. Their cocks slide together as sweetly as tongues.

“Betty.” The name is wrest from him as Jughead wakes in ecstasy, already spending in his drawers. For a moment all he can do is curl on his side and thrust into the blankets, lost to everything except forbidden pleasure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble.

“Hey, gumball!” Archie winks and flashes his signature grin. “You look like your lunch consisted of wire dresshangers. What’s got you in a flump?”

“Nothing much.” Jughead has spent the entire day in a fierce argument with himself: _I’m never talking to Betty again. No, I’m going to head over there at 3 like we agreed. I’m going to tell him to fuck off. No, I’ll walk in, be cordial, and make it clear we should ignore each other. We'll keep our pride and dignity intact._

Archie doesn't seem to notice Jughead's introspection. He taps a pencil against his nose while he gabbles about the date he had on Friday: “…Long black hair, dark eyes, skin like cream. And her figure, va va voom! Plus she has an air of mystery.”

Momentarily diverted from his own troubles, Jughead leans against the wall next to the old pin-up girl calendar. “Air of mystery, eh? Never thought you’d notice such a thing.”

“I notice stuff.”

Jughead snorts. “Bullet bras, you mean. That’s what you notice.”

“True,” Archie concedes. “I do like a tight sweater. Hey, you working at Pops this evening? Maybe I’ll bring Veronica for milkshakes so you can see what I mean about the mystery.”

“Late shift. I’m not on with Toni, worse luck.”

Archie whistles soundlessly. “You ever going to ask her to be your girl? Been hanging on her skirts for the past two years now.”

“Toni doesn’t wear skirts…”

Betty sticks his head around the door, silencing Jughead. “Arch, okay if I borrow a can of 10-40? I’ll pay you – oh.”

“Oh,” Jughead repeats, nearly dropping his keys. “ _Oh_ is right. What the hell happened to you?”

Just like in his dream, Betty’s hair has been chopped into an upright haystack. The boy sports a hideous black eye, and he hunches one shoulder slightly as though it hurts to be upright.

He mutters that it’s nothing, but Archie interrupts. “Reggie and Dilton jumped him earlier! Can you believe that, Jug? I mean – Dilton _Doiley_! Cut off Betty’s Lana Turner hairdo and worked him over. I’m going to get them back, though, you better believe it. Nobody touches my pals.”

“Thanks, Arch. Let’s just forget it, whaddya say?” Betty chokes. He disappears into the belly of the garage.

Jughead doesn’t wait. He throttles the door handle and marches across the two small bays, ignoring Archie’s cry of _What the heck is going on around here?_ “Betty,” he says. “Did they hurt you?”

The mechanic is bent over the bike, displaying where Dilton’s scissors have clipped his hair so deeply they’ve left a gash above his neck. One stubborn strand of gold, still long on top, slips over Betty’s face like a veil. “Told you to forget it,” he says. “No one’s business but mine. Go and broil burgers or something.”

This injustice makes Jughead’s jaw drop. “You invited me here! You specifically asked last night, ‘Say Jughead, want to come to Andrews Garage at 3?’ And look,” he concludes triumphantly, pointing to the time clock. Its hands stand at 2:53.

One flash of green as Betty glares at him over the hood of the motorcycle. “Obviously I thought you’d have hopped off in the opposite direction. Still, if you’re here you might as well make yourself useful. Hand me that crescent wrench.”

Jughead flops on the floor, its mottled paint suggesting a map to some alien planet. Betty’s tools are laid out neatly on an old towel like a surgeon’s implements, and cautiously Jughead selects one of about fifty wrenches. Betty receives it in silence, and for a few minutes there’s no sound except for the metallic tinkle of engine work.

“What’s this radio show you told me about that comes on in the afternoons?” Jughead finally asks.

“My stars, I nearly forgot. Silly little old me. Guess I was, you know, too busy bleeding on myself.” Betty casts him a look of scorn and indicates the radio with one flip of the wrench. “It’s already tuned, dimwit.”

This insult makes normality creep in like a much-beloved dog that's been lost for hours. Groaning theatrically, Jughead stretches and snaps on the Pye Cambridge. To the background tinkle of Betty’s tools, they wait for the vacuum valves to heat up. A fruity voice announcing life insurance fades into three chimes followed by the single spoken word: “Suspense.”

“Today’s episode is Flesh Peddler,” Betty adds. “Hope you don’t mind creepy stories.”

“Not at all.”

In fact, Jughead loves mystery and crime dramas. He settles in to listen to the story, which is nicely bloodthirsty. At one point Betty jumps and drops his screwdriver before sliding Jughead a sidelong look. “Guess this one’s scarier than I thought – oh, fudgecicles. M’nose is bleeding again. At least my ribs aren’t…. Hang on, Archie stocks ice in the back.”

As he stands up and heads to the office, a slender rolled-up notebook falls out of his pocket into a small puddle of oil. Jughead rescues it and is drying off the top page with his sleeve when the words catch his eye: _Why does it matter if I’m a boy or a girl?_

They’re written in pen that scores the paper, nearly breaking through as if the writer can’t contain his passion. Jughead knows at once that it’s Betty who has scrawled those block capitals and underlined them three times.

 _Why does everyone worry about what’s between my legs?_ Betty has added. _Isn’t it what lies inside our brains more important? And inside our hearts?_ _Instead I’m bound by several inches of flesh that define me more than anything I could ever say, or ever do, or ever accomplish._

_I’m a boy called Betty. No one will ever let me forget this: that I’m a boy, whatever that means, and I have a girl’s name._

_But I don’t think any of those things really matter._

Winded, Jughead drops the book beside the tools and settles back against the bike before Betty can catch him reading. The words in the makeshift journal are intensely personal, a cry from the soul. By the time the mechanic emerges with a Bakelite bowl of ice tucked into his elbow, Jughead is intent on polishing a start-spindle for the Indian.

“So why did you show up today?” Betty plucks a cube out of the bowl and holds it against his eye. “To stare at Riverdale’s new freak? It would have been more convenient if you stayed home, honestly.”

“More convenient!” Jughead feels like a swelling balloon filled with righteous indignation. “Is that where we’ve arrived, at convenience? I came here to tell you I actually read the damn novel after you left, and I wanted to discuss it with you, and I wanted to… to say, I wanted to tell you, I wanted…”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Betty settles himself next to the bike, winces, and picks up a flathead screwdriver. “Let’s just agree last night never happened. Since you’re here now you can help me with the bike, but from now on we’re ships that pass in the night. Agreed?”

Jughead doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. Only his heart is unruly, a frantic bird in his ribcage. Betty has handed him a way out, and if he takes it – what then? They nod to each other on the street, pass by, walk on into different lives? And if Betty finds another friend… oh god, if he finds a boy who actually kisses back…

“I saw your notebook,” he blurts. “Didn’t mean to read it, but you dropped it on the floor, and I was always a fast reader, and I couldn’t help myself. I liked what you wrote,” he adds desperately. “Liked it better than Maurice, even.”

“Is this supposed to be an apology?”

“It’s supposed to be – an invitation.” With this declaration, Jughead feels he’s letting go of everything he knows: normality, comfort, Riverdale itself. “Would you like to go and talk down by the river after your shift? It’s quiet there, and the setting sun turns the leaves golden.”

“Turns the leaves golden,” Betty repeats softly. He bends over the exposed engine long enough for Jughead to quietly despair. Just as he stands and prepares to leave the garage, Betty looks up and says, “I’ll come to Sweetwater with you.”

#

They lie back on FP’s old blanket, close enough to hear the river but far enough to be dry. It’s a private spot, good for reading or secret naps. Jughead found when he was five. Since then he’s only shown it to three people: Archie, Toni, and now a slender gearhead.

“Good place for swimming?” Betty asks.

“It’s not bad. If you really want to swim I know an even better spot under the old train tracks. They dammed the water by the bridge, and you can dive from the walls surrounding the water hole.”

Betty nudges his shoulder. “I’d bring sandwiches. And cookies.”

“Cookies? I believe we have a plan.” Jughead picks a wide strip of grass and puts it between his thumbs as a whistle. “You said your ribs hurt. Been jumped before?”

“Of course,” Betty declares. “It was the reason we moved here. I was beaten so badly the doctors didn’t think I’d walk again. Broke two ribs, one ankle, and my nose.” He flexes long fingers and grins at Jughead. “Saved my hands, though. Had to protect the old livelihood, you know? So today was a cakewalk, really. Think your friends were more intent on my hair than turning my brains into mashed potato.”

“Jesus!” Jughead sits up and stares at him, aghast. “How can you talk so calmly about it and make jokes?”

“I have to. It’s not easy being – being what I am. What did you think, Jug, that people welcome me with open arms? My name’s Betty, for crying out loud. Pretty sure I’ll stand out in a crowd for the rest of my life. By now I’ve come to terms with eternal loneliness, you might say. My dad kicked me out when he realized what I was, and everything my mother said couldn’t change his mind. So Cheryl took me under her wing, let me move in with her and Aunt Penelope. It’s no picnic, but I’ll manage.”

Betty rests his chin on both fists and stares at the river, revealing an elegant line of jaw and neck. Jughead wants to trace it with one thumb and, shamefully, his tongue. This strange, brave boy deserves a precious gift, but what can Jughead offer? A stick of gum, a few nickels, pat on the back?

Instead he pulls out a flask of whiskey, pulls out the cork with his teeth, and waves it in front of Betty. Together in friendly silence they drink, the rotgut searing Jughead’s throat. After a few pulls his limbs loosen with happiness. This place feels like the center of the universe, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Jughead slings one arm around Betty’s neck in friendly camaraderie – they can do that much, right? – but the boy jumps up and begins to unbutton his shirt. “It’s hot,” Betty declares, “and that water looks good. I’m going in.”

Betty shucks both shoes, steps out of his pants, and runs toward the water. He’s a bright flash among the trees before launching into the air and plunging into the water with an almighty splash.

The sun is warm on Jughead’s neck. Even the breeze is hot and filled with dust. It only takes a couple of Betty’s shouts (“Come on in, you coward!”) to get him on his feet, make him lift the t-shirt over his head, push down his pants and step out of them. He plunges through grass and reeds and duckgrass into the river where Betty waits for him.

He splashes Jughead with a silver wave, and they both plunge underwater. In the greenish gloom they regard each other solemnly. Betty’s arms rotate in figure 8’s to stay in place, his long legs pale among bubbles and curious fish. The current pushes the two boys together and makes skin brush against silky skin. Together they rise above the waterline, and already Jughead is reaching for Betty, and Betty reaches for him, and they’re pulling each other in.

There’s nothing else, no other choice to be made. Jughead feels his eyes water as he leans in and presses a gruff kiss against Betty’s lower lip, shy and desperate. His heart is hammering faster than ever. He can taste Betty’s breath against his cheek, feel the slight bristle on his chin and it is that more than anything that blots out the worst of Jughead’s doubts.

They’re kissing. Jughead’s kissing a boy, and it’s magical.

Together they move to the bank, clumsy as beached seals. The mud is cool under Jughead’s palms. He’s on top of Betty, not sure how it happened, and they’re gasping into each other’s mouths. _I have to, I can’t, and I don’t…_

“I don’t know what to do,” Jughead admits, hiding his face in Betty’s neck. The flesh there is soft and sweet, and he can’t help rubbing his cheek against throbbing pulse and the tiny hollow of a pale throat.

Betty arches and rolls them so they lie on their sides face to face. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want…”

Maybe Betty knows. His hand strokes between them down Jughead’s chest to brush stomach, flanks, the worn elastic of old boxer shorts that slip off so, so easily. “I can make you more comfortable,” Betty whispers before engulfing Jughead’s straining prick into his mouth.

With a gasp, Jughead rolls on his back and plunges his hands into wet, golden hair. After the cold river Betty’s mouth is pure, sinful warmth. The boy’s tongue swirls around the head, tickles a secret spot underneath Jughead never knew existed. “Wait,” he gasps, “you’re going to make me.”

But Betty sucks him down more firmly. Jughead can see his cheeks hollow as he does it.

_Isn’t it what lies inside our brains more important? And inside our hearts?_

Without warning Jughead begins to shoot in huge, ecstatic spurts that are so glorious it’s nearly painful.

A minute or hours later, Jughead blinks at the tree branches above him. Betty plucks his flask from the pocket of Jughead’s shirt, tips it up, and takes several swigs. “Sorry,” the kid adds. “Giving a suck-job always makes me thirsty.” He recorks the flask and begins to button his fly. “That was fun," Betty adds. "Better go thumb a ride before it starts getting dark and those goons decide to rearrange my face again. Thanks for the drink - catch you on the flip.”

“Hey!” Jughead jumps up. “You’re – you’re just going to take off? Just like that?”

“Well, yeah.” Betty's lips turn in an upside-down smile. “You enjoyed it, right? But soon your guilt will set in, closely followed by strained conversation and anger. Splutter all you want, but I’ve been through this before, and I’ve learned how to protect my- mmf!”

Jughead strides forward while Betty is talking and pulls him in. Betty tastes like whiskey and sex, completely addictive. He’s naked against the hard denim of Betty’s blue jeans, and that’s strangely erotic as well. “You were just going to leave me,” Jughead grits against Betty’s mouth. “You were just going to go. Don’t – don’t do that.”

He’s thrust away by a pair of strong and slender arms. “It’s the best way. Once a regular joe spills his load, the best is to hit the road before I’m punched or worse.”

“Don’t do that,” Jughead repeats. “I know I was a prize clown last night, but then I saw your words this afternoon, and they screamed to me. Nothing has ever made more sense. And then you did me like I’ve never dared to imagine. And now I want to do for you. I want to do for you, Betty.”

And then he’s hauled into another kiss, hard and demanding and filled with regret, as though Betty knows a sad secret. His tongue searches Jughead’s mouth, licking into his core.

“I don’t know how to make you feel the way you made me feel,” Jughead admits into the delicate spiral of the boy’s ear.

“I’ll show you,” Betty whispers. “But don’t you dare make me fall in love with you, Jughead Jones.”

Jughead retreats to unbuckle Betty’s belt, and he sneaks a look at the boy’s face. One tear slips past long lashes and down his cheek: a diamond intent on escape.

That’s when Jughead knows he’s really in trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

Jughead sits in the back booth, dazed with ecstasy and exhaustion. The previous night has been the strangest he’s ever known, lying in his bed entirely awake and remembering what he and Betty did on the banks of Sweetwater River. Each time he thinks of shorn hair under his hand like ripe wheat, or the taste of another boy’s lips, it makes Jughead’s stomach do a slow roll.

Every. Single. Time.

When he was fifteen he kissed someone for the first time – Toni, after a school dance. It had been – fine. She was pretty, no one could deny that, and they’d explored each other in a slow series of revelations over the next few weeks.

But kissing Betty…

Just the thought makes lightning spike through Jughead’s veins, making the car keys rattle in his fist. His heart pounds, his skin jolts with delight. It’s so forbidden, for one thing, and yet it makes so much sense. The way he once eyed up Archie in the gym showers. How he watched James Dean instead of Natalie Wood. The way kissing Trula felt meaningless. Jughead’s ravenous, and it’s not for hamburgers. Each time the diner’s bell rings, he jumps and watches the new arrivals: Moose with Midge on his arm, Josie and Val, Reggie slinking in all alone, a pretty girl with black hair that Jughead doesn’t recognize who sits at the counter and picks up a menu.

He should go and see how Toni’s in the kitchen, but there are ten minutes left in his break, and maybe.

Maybe.

At that moment, the bell jingles once again and the door opens. Like a predestined dream, Betty walks into the diner with Cheryl on his arm, as usual. He looks across the room at Jughead, and their eyes lock with a distinct click.

Several things happen in quick succession. Jughead drops the large bunch of keys with a loud clatter. His heart does an actual somersault inside his chest. Betty lips part, even as he frowns and guides Cheryl to a seat on the other side of the room as far from the back booth as he can get.

Jughead frowns. Ignoring the rest of his fries, he stands and marches to Betty’s table. As soon as he slides into the seat, Cheryl quirks her lips into an ‘I knew it’ smile. “Told you,” she adds.

Fixing an intent gaze on Jughead, Betty pulls a few dimes out of his pocket and tells her to pick out a couple of songs on the Wurlitzer. “Now, Blossom.” Cheryl leaves with a flounce, and before Jughead can demand an explanation for his behavior, Betty leans forward and lowers his voice. “Don’t look at me like that,” he orders. “I mean it, stop that right now.”

“Stop what?”

“You’ve got stars in your eyes. Any fool could look at you and instantly tell what you’re thinking…” With a disgusted sigh, Betty leans back and swipes one hand through his hair. “I know that this is … new. Everything’s changed. I’ve been in your shoes, so I understand exactly what you’re feeling. But what you’ve forgotten is that we could be arrested. Your parents have every legal right to bring a case against me. And that’s not even the worst part.”

Jughead tries to erase the fact that he’s sitting across from an exciting blond who gave him the most delicious sex of his life. He feigns a yawn, tries to summon his usual state of mind – boredom, the long hours until he can have a drink. Maybe if he pretends he’s with Archie or Reggie or any of the dumb lugs he’s known all his life he won’t be sitting there with ‘stars in his eyes’.

But he can’t help asking, “What’s worse than being arrested?”

Betty closes his green eyes for a moment. “They could try to cure us. I've heard stories - but let's not go into all that here. It's enough to turn your stomach."

"Really?"

"Really. Now, pretend to get angry with me. Nothing too dramatic, just click your tongue with disgust. Get up from the table, walk away, and don’t look back.”

Impossible to swallow the massive lump in his throat. Jughead nods, does what Betty says, and stalks to the Gentleman’s without another word. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

In the tiny washroom he collapses against the door. His pale reflection in the speckled mirror wavers as though seen underwater. _Damn it,_ Jughead thinks, _Betty’s right. I do have stars in my eyes._

But how can he help it? After such an incredible afternoon and a night of reliving what happened between them, he can’t just turn off his mind. His feelings. His heart.

Or – and this thought is cold acid in Jughead’s veins – what if Betty just doesn’t want him moping around? Is tired of such a lovesick swain? What if the day before was a one-off, never to happen again?

It’s such a dreadful idea that Jughead squeezes his eyes shut in agony. The desire for the sharp bite of whiskey fills him, and he decides then and there to get blind drunk after his workshift. Jughead nods at the watery image, gears himself for a final few hours of washing dishes, and opens the door.

Betty stands there, arms crossed and head tilted to one side, waiting. Sheer relief makes Jughead gasp.

He’s crowded back inside the little room. Betty locks the door with a quick snap before he backs Jughead against the sink and slides both arms around his neck. “I couldn’t wait any longer,” he murmurs before pulling Jughead into a kiss. It’s a mere brush of lips with a hint of tongue at first: soft, so soft. Jughead cups Betty’s chin in both palms, tilts his head back so they can deepen the kiss. His jaw is sharp as an arrow. The recently-shorn hair are soft prickles under curious thumbs.

Then things get filthy, deliciously so.

Betty presses against him, making it clear that Jughead is with a boy. The kid is already hard, grinding it against Jughead’s own straining prick. “This for me?” Betty murmurs, deliberately pushing closer.

“Yeah. That’s for you.”

With a pleased hum, Betty steps back and begins to work on Jughead’s belt. “We have one minute, two at the most. You’ll have to be quiet, though. Bite your arm or something.”

Delight and satisfaction are seconds away, but somehow it just doesn’t feel right. Jughead covers Betty’s wrists, shakes his head, and pulls the kid away. “No,” he insists.

“What?” Betty rocks back on the heels of his workboots, eyebrows pleating in a delicate frown. “You don’t – we aren’t…”

“I do.” Jughead pulls Betty close, circles his waist, and spills a long sigh. “We are. I just want – I want to be with you. For longer, I guess. I want to _really_ be with you.”

Pushing back with two fists on Jughead’s chest, Betty shakes his head. “You mean you want me? All of me?”

“Yes.” In that moment Jughead realizes there’s nothing he wants more.

“Oh.” Betty’s eyes search his. “Gosh. You’re quite the surprise, you know that? I thought I’d have to pursue you for months even to give you a suckjob, and here you are talking about, you know.”

“You were going to pursue me?” Jughead feels a huge grin split his face. “Now I wish I hadn’t been so easy.”

“But seriously.” One firm forefinger tips up Jughead’s face. “What you're talking about means a lot of preparation, not to mention a place we can be together for longer than five minutes. I hate to be all pragmatic, but running water is important. Love gets messy between boys.”

_Love gets messy between boys._

Jughead groans, pushes Betty against the door and kisses him with nothing held back. His heart pounds, mind whirls, _Jesus._ “I’ll find a place,” he promises. “I’ll find the time.”

#

Over a load of greasy dishes, Jughead whistles Mr. Sandman and scrubs with a flourish. When Toni giggles and asks what’s got him in such a frilly mood, he flicks soap bubbles at her and dodges her rolled-up towel. “Seriously, Jones,” she demands. “Did a customer tip you a fin? Got a lead on a better job? Score a steamy date?”

“I might have.” Jughead smiles dreamily at a sundae dish crusted with mustard, of all thing, and thinks about Betty. He’s going to have to find a little spot for them. Archie’s treehouse? Nah, no facilities, and in any case they’d be running the risk of Andrews busting in on… The mere thought makes him shudder.

“Just maybe I have an exciting assignation myself.” Toni smiles to herself and tosses one long curl over her shoulder.

“Izzat so? Well done, Topaz. Well done.”

In friendly silence they finish the load of dishes. Toni stacks them with expert precision, ready for the next round of fries and malteds, and Jughead puts away the ones she can’t reach on the top shelves.

“Say, not bad.” Pop enters, looks around, and nods at the gleaming kitchen. “You two want a break out back? Stay close, though, in case we get the teen bus.”

He doesn’t have to say it twice. Already untying his apron, Jughead holds the door open for Toni. They step outside and lounge on the steps in late orange sunshine, and she tips back her head to catch the last rays. Jughead yawns and leans back on one elbow, content in a rare moment of peace.

“Trula?” Toni asks.

“Who?”

“Your date. Is it with Trula Twyst?”

Appalled, Jughead shakes his head. “I told you she tried to make me wear a white sports coat the last time we went dancing. A white _sports_ coat, Toni.”

“Yes, but there isn’t anyone else in Riverdale. Unless!” Toni bounces up and twirls on one toe. “Is it that new girl? The mysterious one with long black hair – Vera or something?”

“Vera? No one's called – wait.” Realization hits him. “You mean Veronica.”

“Is it her?” Toni presses.

“Never you mind who it is. But no, it isn’t her. Archie’s already pulled dibs.”

“Debby, then? Joanie? Ginger?” At each guess Toni’s face, lit up with curiosity, gets closer. Jughead slithers away from her on the step, protesting that it’s none of her business and to just give it a rest, Topaz, for crying out loud.

“But you have some mystery dame squirreled away! I have to figure out who it is...” Toni stops, and she sits with a sudden plop on the middle step. “Jug,” she adds.

A cold sensation of impending doom blossoms in his belly. “Please stop,” he begs. “How about you? Who’s the lucky sheik?”

“Don’t try to throw me off the scent. It’s not – you’re not after Cheryl, are you?”

“Cheryl?” Jughead mimes gagging. “I don’t like department store fashion mannequins, thank you very much.”

Drawing herself up to the dignified height of 4’11”, Toni sniffs. “Well, she’s not… Oh, my gosh. Jughead. I know who it is – but oh my gosh.”

The bloom of fright in his innards increases. “Just forget it.”

“Thing is, I can’t.” Toni stares up at him from her lower step. “I know who you’re tomcatting after, know exactly why you’ve been so miserable and delighted in turns.”

“Toni…”

She lunges forward and folds his water-wrinkled palm in both of hers. “But don’t worry, I won’t say a word.”

#

They sit in the back row of the movies, girls in the middle. Jughead has his arm around Toni, and Betty’s cuddling Cheryl. On his way to join his own date, Archie pauses with the world’s largest popcorn bag and leers at Jughead. “Not your girlfriend, huh?” he stage-whispers.

Jughead waves him on and eats a handful of his own popcorn before glaring at Cheryl. Not that he actively dislikes her - she’s witty enough, stylish if you like that sort of thing with her white shirt with red scarf and matching skirt. The girl sits all prim and upright in the circle of Betty’s arm.

And that’s just it. She’s in the place where Jughead wants to be.

But as the lights go down and the newsreel begins to play, he feels the tiniest scratch on his fingernail. Jughead is able to see Betty, catch his conspiratorial glance as he strokes Jughead’s finger again in the cover of darkness and the back row of the movie theater.

It’s heady, is what it is, making little stars of delight burst all over his skin. That furtive, secret caress might be the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to him, more exciting than nearly getting his dick sucked in Pop’s bathroom. Jughead touches Betty’s sleeve and dares to slide a thumb inside against the silky skin of his wrist. Next to him, just as bold, Toni pulls up the red dimity skirt and cups the white flesh of Cheryl’s knee.

_Joanne Woodward,_ an announcer calls in a fruity voice. _This year’s smash hit headed straight for the Oscars. The Three Faces of Eve!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead learns how to have the best and worst night of his life.

Betty's Aunt Penelope is a walking make-up counter with red hair. The woman's orange lips spread into an unholy smile when she comes into Cheryl’s room. “I’m going out,” Mrs. Blossom announces. The black patent leather bow on her left pump bounces as she kicks one toe on the scuffed wood floor. “There’s not to be any nonsense while I’m gone.”

“We wouldn’t dream of it, Mother.” Cheryl fans her neck with the cover of a jazz LP, her grin just as bright and false as her mother’s. “The film quite tired us out. Toni and I will bunk down in my room, and the boys are going to pull down one of the bedrolls for Jughead. Isn’t that right, boys?”

Aunt Penelope humphs and teeters to the hallway. “Bed before midnight. No gin, no cigarettes, and no more of that filthy music.”

“Very well, Mother.” Cheryl yanks the needle off the record and replaces it with Percy Faith. “I bought this just to play when she’s pretending to be Dr. Spock,” she whispers. “When she leaves we’ll put on Route 66 again.”

Jughead catches Betty’s eye and grins. The schmaltzy music is ripped from a bad romance, making him think of fellas in white sports coats and pert gals wearing net gloves. “Dance?” He extends his elbow.

“Who, me?” Betty flutters his eyelashes and wraps both arms around Jughead’s neck. They clown around for a moment, doing exaggerated twirls and a few dips  to make the girls laugh.

Or maybe they’re both intoxicated by the sudden freedom of the rundown old house. Ivy cascades over the windows like blackout curtains, and the house sits far back from the road, keeping filthy secrets hidden from prying eyes. It’s like living on the moors or underwater. And in that moment Jughead realizes how carefully he’s been holding himself, how he and Betty can’t look at each other, how they have to be misers with every word or touch.

The tiny stroke of their fingers was all they’ve exchanged all night. Outside the movies, as they left to head to Pop’s Diner, Jughead thought he caught Dilton’s wondering frown. To cover up he had pulled Toni extra-close, and kissed her cheek.

Archie had unwittingly played his part by wolf-whistling and giving two thumbs’ up. His date had shushed him before towing him away like a beautiful and powerful tugboat.

But here Jughead can pull Betty in at last. He can feel the boy’s slender waist, marvel over the sharp blade of his chin, hum into his ear. In the far corner, Toni has pulled Cheryl into her arms, and he can’t help wondering what are they going to do? And how?

If it comes to that, what will he do with Betty? _To_ Betty?

“You’re plumping up down there,” the boy whispers. “Thinking about something nice?”

Jughead’s gaze falls to where they are pressed together, denim and brass zippers. “I don’t know what comes next,” he whispers.

Curling their fingers together, Betty goes on tiptoe. “I’ll show you,” he promises.

#

The room where Betty stays is right at the top of Thistle House, an attic storeroom filled with boxes and an old bed leaning drunkenly against one wall. “Not there,” Betty directs when Jughead sits on the edge. “It squeaks, and Aunt Penelope would hear.”

“Would she turn us in? Or call the cops?”

Betty’s shoulder muscles ripple under the old cloth of his shirt as he pulls down a pair of sleeping bags and unrolls them with swift, spare movements. “Juggie, my own mother was ready to turn me in. Dad gave me such a bad whipping that I couldn’t hear for a month. We’re always on the run, always in hiding. We must watch every move, every word, every decision.” He gestures to the door and adds, “Lock it. And for God’s sake, keep quiet.”

The key turns easily, as though someone has recently oiled the lock. When Jughead turns, Betty stands in a shaft of moonlight, arms over his head, shirt dangling from one wrist.

The sight of Betty in silver, belt unbuckled and skin glowing as though he’s swallowed a candle is intoxicating. Jughead sucks in a ragged breath. “You…I…”

“Sorry.” Betty hops into one of the bedrolls and settles a pillow behind his head. “Is it too much? Seeing a fella? And knowing that the boy in question wants… well. What I’m trying to say is you can back away at any time.”

It feels like a giant has removed his spine. Jughead tumbles on the bedroll on top of Betty and plants one palm on either side of the boy’s face. “You just made me weak. I looked up from the door and saw a real angel, so whaddya expect, huh? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? And after watching you all night, or rather not watching you all night since we’re not allowed to touch or look at each other unless it’s to deliver a slug to the jaw…mmm!”

Betty surges up and captures him in a warm kiss. He gently bites Jughead’s lower lip, sucks, licks into his mouth. It tastes like smoke and salt.

As if in a dream, Jughead pulls off his own clothes under the blankets. “There you are,” he whispers. “There you are.”

“I opened myself for you this time.” Betty guides his fingers down to a tight, slick entrance and licks Jughead’s neck. “The next time we make love, you’ll do it for me. I’ll show you.” A crackling packet is pushed into Jughead’s hand, and somehow he’s able to tear it open, roll it on with Betty’s help.

The pop of a tiny tin, and the slick feel of oil. It coats him and the mysterious spot between Betty’s slender thighs.

Then the boy closes his eyes, bites his lip, and guides Jughead inside.

Tight, so tight. The tightest warmth he’s ever felt. Their hands between them, cupping Betty’s hardness. Flesh against silky flesh. And the feeling – little juddering shocks of pleasure throughout his core and, yes, his cock, but also his entire body. Hell, his entire being. It’s like fucking with his soul, as though Jugehad pushes his heart inside the golden-haired mechanic with each stroke.

The waves of pleasure, almost painfully intense, grow faster until Jughead’s shaking with it. Betty’s legs are locked around his waist, their mouths are open against each other not in a kiss but a mutual gasp as his dick jumps and spills over their fists, and inside Jughead strains and pumps again and again inside, inside, inside Betty, inside a boy.

#

“I thought you’d want to run when you first saw me.” Betty settles himself on Jughead’s chest. “Thought you’d want something different.”

“I do want something different.” Jughead presses a long kiss to the glowing hair. “You’re different from everyone I’ve ever met.”

“I meant softer. With breasts and hips and maybe a hoopskirt, stockings and suspenders or a corset, long hair swept into a Mamie Van Buren…”

Although he’s just had the most intense orgasm of his life, Jughead feels his dick twitch with interest. “Hey, you know something? I’d like to see _you_ in all that stuff, stockings and suspenders and a hoopskirt.”

“Yeah?”

Although it’s dark in the attic room, Jughead can hear the smile. “I’d like that very much.” He gets up on one elbow and cups Betty’s chin. “And stop protesting. I know we need a quiet place of our own with privacy and running water a real bed, but that’s just a huge incentive to finally get my life together. Not drop out of school the way I’d planned. Maybe take a few classes, get a real job. Find a small apartment, and one day a house. And save a few dollars to buy you some pretty things.”

He’s spent so long living in a fog. Each day has been a chase for oblivion, for night so he can drink whiskey and forget where he lives and what he does. Forget that his dad is passed out in the bar, that his mom has taken off, that he hasn’t seen Jellybean in months.

“Jughead,” Betty whispers. “What are you saying?”

He shifts so the boy is closer, legs slotted together, black and blond hair mingled on the pillow. “You never said anything about me being the one who might fall when you warned me, that day by the river.”

“Fall? Are you…”

“Yeah. I’ve fallen, Betts.”

“Would you really buy me stockings?”

“One day. For now, this will have to do.” Jughead reaches out, feels around the floor, and finds the soft wool of his hat. He settles it carefully on the soft, shorn hair, and Betty murmurs it's the nicest gift ever.

In the morning, he’ll wake up and kiss Betty’s neck. They’ll make love again. Jughead will head home, find a job, and go buy a notebook. Maybe a few pencils as well. He’ll go to class when school starts in a week. Do homework instead of blowing it off. Get a diploma, maybe start saving for a few college classes. They’ll have to live spare, he and Betty, but what would it matter if Jughead came home to gold curls and ivory skin each night?

With this luminous boy in his arms, Jughead’s future becomes a glittering gift box filled with possibilities.

#

“Wake up.”

“Fuck off, dad,” Jughead slurs. “M’gonna look for a job in a few hours, s’too early yet…” Flailing one arm, he punches the darkness and connects with a soft cheek.

A yelp wakes him. Jughead sits up, heart drumming a Muddy Waters backbeat. _Got my mojo workin,_ he thinks. _Got my mojo workin._

“Jug,” a familiar voice snaps. “You just punched Cheryl, you lumbering caveman.”

“What?” Scrabbling on the floor, Jughead finds a shirt and pulls it over his head. “Sorry, sorry. Guess I was still asleep.”

Cheryl is beside Toni, both girls crouched next to the old bedroll like dim bookends. It’s way too early to be awake.

Except the girls are there, and – oh.

He’s all alone in the sleeping bag.

“Where’s Betty?” Jughead twists and looks at the bed, expecting to see a slender figure relaxed in sleep. Its neat covers and single pillow are untouched. “Did he go to the can? Why are you here? Did something – is there a fire?”

“No fire,” Cheryl hisses, “but Betty’s gone.”

“What?” Feeling for his pants, Jughead dresses as quickly as he can under the covers. “He’s gone? How do you know? What happened?” He stands up and winces as Toni snaps on the single light, an old swing desk-lamp. It sits in the center of an old table that functions as a desk: loaded with neat stacks of books and lined paper. A small jar of actual ink is in the exact center. Obviously Betty likes to read, or write, or both. By its harsh light, Jughead’s can see he’s wearing Betty’s garage workshirt, a pale blue button-down with the name embroidered in an oval over his heart.

Toni shushes him and beckons. As the three of them tiptoe down the stairs, she whispers that Cheryl woke up after midnight. “Heard a car door slam outside,” she adds. “Then it drove off.”

“I went to get a drink from the icebox.” Cheryl reaches the bottom of the steps, peers around the large foyer, and motions for Toni and Jughead to follow. “My feminine intuition told me look around, and I found no one in the house except for TT. And you.”

Jughead scrubs both palms over his face. “It doesn’t make sense. Where do you think Betty went? Did his family get in touch with him out of the blue and I didn’t hear the phone ring? Why would he just drive off like that?”

Toni’s fist curls into the Betty shirt and pulls Jughead to the door. “Let’s check it out.” Cheryl hums assent and unsnaps a series of complicated-looking locks.

Outside, the night is in the act of relinquishing its hold on the world, but it’s still dark enough to make everything surreal.

“Mother’s Bel Air is gone. Do you think Betty felt ill? Ate some bad popcorn?”

“The movie snacks were quite dreadful, come to think of it,” Toni chirps.

It makes sense. After all, Jughead can be a deep sleeper, especially after everything that happened in the old, patched bedroll. A tiny flare of hope flickers in his gut…

…which extinguishes almost immediately.

There’s a dark, shapeless object on the far side of the driveway. A long series of _No no no no_ spools from his lips as Jughead falls forward to pick it up.

The soft wool of his hat is chilled, slightly wet from early dew. As Jughead turns it over, a crumpled ball of paper flops out and bounces on the too-long grass.

Toni pounces and picks it up. Under her careful fingers, the paper reveals its dreadful secret: four smudged letters written in scratchy ink.

**_H E L P_ **


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one will help him.
> 
> (PLEASE NOTE - TAGS HAVE BEEN ADDED.)

After Betty’s disappearance, the day becomes a series of clumsily-stitched patchwork. The screech of Jughead’s wheels as he leaves Thistle House and drives all over Riverdale to find his lover. Mr. Andrews’s frown when Jughead knocks on Archie’s window. Reggie’s gasp, the sharp panic in his voice when he says “Fuck off and leave me alone.” The slap of Jughead’s sneakers as he runs from one house to the next, finally returning to the scene of the crime.

Cheryl’s face, white with panic as she opens the door. Yes, she has news. No, it’s not bad – not good, but not bad either. Her cousin has moved home, she states. No, she hasn’t heard from him. Yes, she’ll give Betty Jughead’s message and now she has to go shopping for back to school clothes and could he please leave now?

Toni stands behind her, taking in his filthy appearance. “You stink, Jones,” she says.

“Toni.” Jughead feels desperation burn his guts. “You have to come with me and help me find Betty. And he _hasn’t_ moved back home. That’s a lie.” He ignores Cheryl’s sniff. “His dad kicked him out of the house once. You both know why. He’s not at the garage, they haven’t registered a Betty Cooper at Riverdale High School, and he’s not at any of our spots. Just help me, please. He has to be close, only a day has passed since he went missing. If we put our heads together, I know we’ll come up with a plan. I – I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Toni folds her arms. “I’d love to help you out, but with school and work, I just won’t have the time.” And when he rushes forward and tries to hug her, to whisper _Please_  in her ear, she fends him off.

His breath whistles as Cheryl closes the door. Someone yells that both Toni and Cheryl are god-damned cheap whores, and with a spike of shame Jughead realizes the person shouting is him.

Toni pops her head out of the door and looks at him square in the eye. “For old times’ sake I’m going to forget you ever said that. Good luck, Jughead.” Under the floppy bangs of her hair, Toni’s eyes have the wild look of a captured animal. “They’ll take Cheryl away too if I help you,” she whispers. “Now go, or else the Blossoms are going to call Sheriff Keller.”

He turns and slouches down the driveway. A trash can leers at him with crumpled paper teeth, reminiscent of Weatherbee when he said Jughead was garbage, just like his father.

Time blinks forward.

The trash is on fire.

Blocks away, a police siren wails.

#

FP meets him in the kitchen, brows beetled into a furious V. “You think you’re funny burning property? _Blossom_ property, of all damn fool things!” he shouts. “Hey dummy – you’re a smart kid! You might actually have a future if you stop acting like a clown!”

“You just called me dummy and smart in the same sentence,” Jughead drawls. “Nice use of juxtaposition.”

FP gives him a clip on one ear, and in retaliation Jughead steals a bottle of cooking sherry from the cupboard under the sink. If he’s heading down a spiral to hell, he might as well ride in style.

Ignoring Jellybean’s cry (“Where ya going, Jughead, huh? Can I come too?”) he slams out of the house. The hooch goes into a side pocket of his leather. Jughead climbs into the car, checks the needle, and sees he has enough gas to drive to the river.

A September breeze blows in the rolled-down passenger window, bringing wood smoke and exhilarating chill, hints of approaching autumn. Far away, the last crickets of summer chirp at each other. Flocks of waxwings squirt out of the trees and take flight in mathematical precision, probably startled by the soft HooHoo of a waking owl.

The beauty makes Jughead lonely to his very core, and he pulls over suddenly on a strip of wild herbs to bow his head over the steering wheel. _I don’t if there’s anyone out there,_ Jughead thinks. _But maybe you could send me a little help. Send us a little help. Either I ditch this alcohol and do something meaningful with my life, or I go and get blind-drunk by the river._

“Outside,” something whispers.

"What? Betty? Are you there?" Jughead jumps down from the driver’s seat. He closes the door, and that’s when he sees the giant letters scrawled on the Chevy, dripping and crimson as blood.

GET LOST, FAIRY. WE DON’T WANT YOUR KIND HERE.

A short, ironic laugh is wrested from him. Jughead withdraws the bottle, twists it open with his teeth, and toasts the message. “Thanks for that,” he adds.

He gulps a third of the bottle and stumbles towards the river. A sulky turtle snaps at him and withdraws into the shallows. Jughead toasts the snapper, the green rocks, the fallen tree. He toasts Reggie and Dilton and Penelope Blossom. Most of the bottle is gone, the world spins around him, and Jughead realizes he’s tripped over his own feet, tumbling into the bittercress and touch-me-nots.

There in his makeshift couch he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

And remembers.

#

As if from nowhere, Betty produces a wax package with Dough-Boy Prophylactic written across the face of a stern gendarme. “Pour tout le monde!!” the cop is saying.

“Pretty sure I can’t get you pregnant,” Jughead whispers between kisses. 

Betty grins, breathtaking in the half-light from outside. “We should probably talk about girls’ breasts and wankle rotary engines instead of getting me in the family way.”

“Okay,” Jughead agrees. “Marilyn Monroe has a fine set, and I really want to wankle your engine.”

Perhaps to shut him up, Betty climbs on top and pushes Jughead into the pillows. There’s a confusing interlude with more kisses, the kid’s sharp inhale, and pressure against Jughead’s tip before – ohhhhh – he slips into the tightest and sweetest of spots in an act so crazy and shocking he nearly blows right away.

#

Jughead comes back to the present with the acid taste of vomit in his mouth and someone shouting his name. Unable to do anything but lurch onto all fours and hang his head, he heaves until he’s empty.

A strong fist grips his collar and propels him out of the dirt. “Jug,” Archie’s voice repeats. “You’ll fall face-first into your own mess, for the love of Mike. Are you sick?”

“He’s drunk,” an unknown female says. “I can smell the alcohol from here. Let’s pour him into that tin can of a car and take him to the nearest hose, Archiekins.”

“Ugh. I’m cleaning him off right here first before he pollutes a perfectly decent automobile.”

Despite his protests, Jughead is frog-marched towards the river. Ignoring the duckweed and his own pants, Archie walks them both into the water. “Deep breath,” he commands before pushing Jughead underwater in a green baptism.

#

Jughead is slumped against the trunk of a pine, pants and shirt still sopping. At least he smells like river and sap instead of his own sputum. “I just spent all day looking for Betty. No one would help. No one knows where he went, not even Cheryl. They won’t talk to me at all at Thistle House. Then my dad blew a gasket, and …” He grimaces. “Don’t suppose either of you have a brush and some tooth powder, do you?

“You can have a piece of Tootie-Fruitie, if you like.” The black-haired girl, Veronica, produces a pack of gum and holds it out. She waits while Jughead extracts a slice and throws it back into her flowery cotton lap.

But Archie’s forehead creases in a frown that’s identical to his father’s. “What’s your bag in all this? Betty’s a regular guy and knows how to take care of himself. Heck, he’s nearly 18. Is that what all this is about? Why’re you so worried, f’r gosh sakes?”

Jughead freezes. A killdeer sews the silence with its distinctive song: _Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!_

Veronica crosses her legs at the ankles to resettle the voluminous skirts of her pretty dress and raises her chin. “He just needs to find his friend, Archiekins. We do live in the days of In Cold Blood, after all.”

With a flash of surprise, Jughead realizes he actually likes Archie’s new squeeze. Her bandbox demeanor hides sharp intelligence similar to Betty’s. “Look, I wouldn’t ask, except Betty literally disappeared in the middle of the night. Well, we were on an overnight. With, ah, with Toni and Cheryl. Yes, all four of us, that’s it.”

“An overnight!” Archie repeats, delighted. “Didja sneak and bus Miss Topaz in the Passion PIt? Woohoo! Juggie and Toni, sitting in a tree…”

The long scroll of Archie’s wit fades into the background. Jughead catches Veronica’s arrow-sharp gaze, dark and inescapable. A prickle of unease goes down his back, and he leaps to his feet. “Seems to me we should go and get started. Sooner we act the better chance we find Betty. Maybe we can make a timeline, create a think-tank, list some likely places to search. We’ll have to …”

“Get a bath,” Archie laughs. “Exchange that think-tank for a dunk-tank, buddy, and don’t be shy with the soap.”

“I have an old cork board.” Jughead studiously ignores the ginger idiot. “We could use that for ideas, connections, notes. But maybe we should gather information first, look at maps, plot out an plan of attack …”

His voice dies out. In its demure stance by the road, the old Chevrolet still bears its flame of anonymous hatred. Archie stops and points at the car with a baffled frown, but Veronica hooks a firm hand through his elbow. “You drive our friend here, Archie,” she directs. “I’ll follow in your jalopy.”

She pushes Archie like a massive and reluctant dog into the driver’s seat. Jughead could watch these two interact all day, except he’s so exhausted the world is turning red at the edges and Betty is still out there. With a groan he collapses on the old upholstery and watches as Archie starts the engine.

As the car gathers speed, Jughead slides into sleep.

#

In a dream, he sees a tall institution built with severely gray stone. Flanked by other teens, he nearly trips on the step, which are worn by years of passage.

A woman waits at the top. Her hair is hidden under a nun’s veil, and the skirts of her dress reaches mid-shin. It exposes a sensible pair of lace-ups and ankles thick with muscle. The look in the woman’s face makes Jughead uneasy, and so does the folder in her arms. It’s marked with words like HydroBaths, Aversion Therapy, Metrazol-Induced Seizures, Isolation Ward.

On the bottom of the folder someone has added Frontal Lobotomy in block capitals.

“Welcome to the Sisters of the Quiet Mercy,” the nun says. But she’s not talking to Jughead, who floats in the corner of the dream like a fly on a painting. Instead, the Sister addresses a little knot of – visitors? students? patients? – that have ascended to the entrance. There’s a girl with prepubescent figure and dark, messy hair. Another who might be stunning if her profile weren’t disfigured with scars. And behind them…

A boy, slim and upright, whose blond curls are growing in just long enough to scrape into a tiny ponytail.

“This is your new home,” the nun continues. “It’s also the first day of your new life.”

“What if we don’t want new lives?” Betty calls from the back on the little group. “What if we’re fine with the way we live now?”

Obviously the nun doesn’t expect any interruptions. She raises one brow, and her pale eyes narrow. “The caterpillar doesn’t know it has a new identity until it builds a cocoon, liquifies itself, and emerges as a butterfly.”

“We already have wings.” Betty raises his chin into a sharp and determined angle. Clouds move over the sun, and a purple shadow moves over his face.

Jughead, a useless observer, sucks in his breath. For a moment Betty looks like he has two black eyes, huge bruises covering the sockets as if he’s been punched out by a bully.

Or, as though he's had a slender metal leucotome inserted just above the tear-duct to pierce the bone and sever the pre-frontal cortex.

“No!” Jughead shouts. “Take anything you want, take me if you want, shave off his hair, chop off my fingers, but for God’s sake don’t steal his mind! It’s his personality! In all this ugliness, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever found!”

Overhead, the clouds blow on to other parts of the world. Betty blinks and follows the other teens. Jughead shouts for them all to stop, trying to warn them in a dreamer’s voiceless language.

It’s no use. The line of kids walk inside the Sisters of the Silent Mercy, and huge doors slam shut behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that Miss Grundy is the comics version in ABNB. She was an elderly lady who expected (and got) the best from her students - white-haired and steel-willed. 
> 
> I miss her, so I wanted to give her a part in this fic.

Dog has a name, but the nuns calls him Dog or Get Out of There You Pest. The Sisters sway the halls of Quiet Mercy like dignified gray cones, hands folded in the folds of their habits with only their faces visible. Dog cannot smell them. It makes him nervous, this non-smell, and he whines when Sister Woodhouse locks him into his kennel at night.

That’s what she calls it: a ‘kennel.’ Dog knows better. It is a cage.

Dog was originally brought to Quiet Mercy to be a pal to the patients. There were doctors at the hospital then, nurses, a real pool, delicious smells from the kitchen. Then the Sisters returned, and Dog was no longer a pal. Now he is a useless mongrel excuse of a guard dog, according to Sister Woodhouse. She withholds food until he learns to growl, to snap, to bite. When no one’s looking, he sniffs his way around Quiet Mercy in search of escape. After months on the prowl, Dog find the scent of freedom behind a door marked X. Of course, Dog can’t open it with his paws. He needs one of the humans to do that, one of the lost souls imprisoned at the Home.

Most of the patients don’t notice Dog when he tries to alert them to the door. They are too lost in their own maps of sadness, which have different colors and sounds when Dog passes them in the grounds. Number 14 is a tiny and silent girl with red explosions going on inside her head. She shares a room with 33, a scarred angry woman who always shouts at ghosts. Dog can see them at night, pale shapes that make his hair stand on end with their _wrongness_. They shouldn’t exist, and yet there they are. They shriek and reach out with their broken fingers, making Dog run away with his tail between his legs.

His flight nearly takes him into Sister Woodhouse’s path. She carries a clipboard and is so intent on what she’s writing she nearly trips over Dog. He backs away, a growl building in his throat _._

“Out, you filthy hound,” the nun declares. “Next time you get in my way, I’ll tie you up outside with no food or water…”

Dog doesn’t wait to find out what else Sister says. He bolts down one hall, then another, until he’s lost. And he’s tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and he veers into the first open door.

It’s not empty. A boy sits on the bed holding an open book on one knee. He looks up when Dog enters.

“Hello.” The person’s voice is low and gentle, a good voice. Dog likes the patient’s slender frame, golden hair, and wide smile. “Who are you then?”

The boy extends a hand extended for Dog to sniff. It smells like oil, smoke, and honesty. “What’s your name, old fellow? Do you have a name? Maybe on your collar. I’m Betty, and you’re – oh, good grief. Hot Dog? That’s what they called you?” A low laugh. “Okay, Hot Dog. Going to have to take you outside in a bit, but for now you can stay here. You can drink some water from this dish, and I’ve got some crackers under my mattress.”

Firm fingers probe Dog’s neck and find the exact spot that’s impossible to scratch with a hind leg. Dog sighs in relief, licks the boy’s hand, and makes an instant decision.

This will be _his_ human.

#

In the library, Jughead hunches over a reading desk. There are hidden sections of Riverdale that only show up on maps: the sewer systems, underground waterways, an abandoned bunker used for blackout drills during World War II.

Then there’s the lost highway on the outskirts of Riverdale. No one knows where that goes. It crosses Sweetwater at the old bridge and plunges into woods so deep and thick it’s nearly impossible to track. There are stories about the old road, how trucks have picked up hitchhikers who slip out of the cab only to reappear later in old obituary columns. One portion of the Lost Highway seems to have warped gravity, where cars parked in neutral drift up the hill instead of down. A serial killer with one hook for a hand hunts for careless couples in parked cars in another section of the road. These could all be urban legends, but Jughead gets the feeling some of them are based in fact.

“Look at Professor Jones!”

Jughead nearly leaps out of his skin. Archie stands by the reading table, flanked by Veronica. She looks as elegant as usual, wearing a tailored blouse and high-waisted pants with red piping. On anyone else the ensemble would look ridiculous.

Archie slaps his thigh and slugs Jughead’s shoulder. “You shrieked like a little girl! Pure soprano! You should take up opera, maybe join the Andrews sisters…”

“You join the Andrews sisters,” Jughead snaps. “The name fits.” Exhaustion fills his skull like a huge bowling ball, compounded by a massive hangover.

And Betty. He’d do anything to find Betty. It’s the worst pain of all, how much of a hole has been left in the mechanic’s absence.

Archie is still jawing on, but Veronica interrupts and sits forward. “What can we do to help?”

“A little less noise, Archibald.” Miss Grundy materializes from behind one of the card catalogues, spectacles dangling from a long chain. “This is a library, not a hootenanny.”

“Yes, Miss Grundy. Sorry.” Archie waits until the librarian taps off to one of her endless piles of books and subconsciously mimics Veronica’s posture. “Seriously, Ronnie and I are here to help. What can we do?”

“I don’t know.” Jughead falls back in the uncomfortable library chair and indicates piles of books, documents, journals, and the map. “Where can I even begin?”

Archie opens his mouth, but Veronica cuts him off. “By telling us what you know,” she declares. “Everything you remember about the night your friend disappeared.”

Several memories from that night instantly flash across his mind: the way Betty threw back his head when he got close, how he shivered when Jughead bit his neck, the warm and musky smell of the boy’s skin. “Oh,” he says. “Well, y’know. It was a normal night at the movies, and then we went back to Cheryl’s house.”

“And? What did you do there?”

Does Veronica’s gaze have to be so direct? Jughead shifts and scratches his nose, searching for the right words.

“Betcha he bussed Toni Topaz in the porch swing, that’s what happened there.” Archie adds another catcall and quickly looks to see if Miss Grundy has heard him.

Veronica blinks several times. “Archiekins, would you go and ask for some notepaper? So we can take notes, you understand. Pencils too. Maybe an eraser. And, do you know what? I’m thirsty. See if you could procure me a glass of water, be a love.” She waits until Archie gets up and slouches off, repeating her list under his breath so he won’t forget any of the items. “The boy can be as dumb as a sack of wet mice - good thing he’s pretty. Now, Jughead, listen to me. I grew up in New York City with what you might call an artsy crowd. I know who you are and what Betty is to you – but don’t gasp and stretch your eyes like that. It’s okay. In my world, that was taken for granted.”

“Taken for _granted?_ Really?”

“Yes, for granted. In fact, for some of my friends that was everyday life."

This makes Jughead imagine a future he hasn't even let himself think about before, with a tiny Chelsea apartment, maybe a cat purring on a pillow with smells of coffee, cigarettes, and paint in the air. When Betty walked through the door with a sack of groceries, Jughead would throw aside his newspaper and jump up to kiss him full on the lips, right there in daylight and everything.

They’d go to breakfast the next morning, not touching. Letting eyes speak what lips and hands would do later. And under the table, the tiniest brush of a fingernail against his hand.

Jughead craves it so deeply he can’t move. He wants to live with Betty, not in some impossible Happy-Ever-After but to really live life with all its tiny annoyances: to argue, to be bored, tired, annoyed – because those things are _real_ , and that’s what he wants. Jughead wants reality.

He also knows he has no chance at that lovely, so longed-for future. But perhaps he can at least find Betty and rescue him from wherever Penelope Blossom has taken the boy. Maybe Jughead can set that golden spirit free like a butterfly out of its entangling net.

But where the hell has Betty been taken?

“Tell me,” Veronica insists. “We can’t help if you won’t tell us. And don’t worry about Archie – I’ll make it right with him or lead him up the garden path, whichever is best.” Her chin tilts up as she speaks, and Jughead has no doubt that what she says is true. Besides, at that moment he has no other choice.

He laces his fingers and leans forward. In a low voice he tells her everything, how they went to Cheryl’s house after the movies, how he and Betty danced to Route 66, how they stole away to the attic. The promises they made, the plans they had shared.

How he had fallen asleep with Betty in his arms and woken, hours later, all alone.

Veronica’s dark eyes soften, and she covers Jughead’s hand with both of hers. “Seems like you found a gem. You’re lucky.”

“Hey!” Archie bounds into his seat, spilling half of Veronica’s water. “You trying to make time with my best girl, Jug?”

“Oh, shush.” Taking her water, Veronica sips as delicately as a cat and sets down the glass in a precise right angle to the map of Riverdale. “We just became friends, don’t get your shirtwaist in a bunch. Now. We need to find some likely places where Betty might have been taken. From what Jughead says, it would a … a hospital or prison.”

“This place is both.” A long and bony forefinger stabs the map in the center of the green section bisected by the Lost Highway to indicate a small square marked SOQM.

Miss Grundy has appeared behind Archie. Ignoring Veronica’s surprised squeak, the librarian produces an ancient copy of The Register that’s folded back to the classified ads. “Home for Troubled Youths,” the copy blares. “A refuge for Teens who have Strayed, bringing Peace of Mind to Anxious Parents and Guardians.”

There’s an image under the text, a black and white photo of a dour nun in full habit. She’s identified with a tiny caption, “Sister Woodhouse, M.M. S.”

“Sister Woodhouse.” Jughead leans forward and taps the Register. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I might have seen her before.”

“You have?” Archie squints fiercely at the picture. “Where?”

“I know this sounds like fortune-teller mumbo-jumbo,” Jughead says slowly, “but she was in a dream I had. About - about Betty.”

#

Archie drives with Veronica next to him in the passenger seat. Jughead’s in the back, fingering a note written in exquisite copperplate: _Be certain to visit me when you return._ It’s signed Geraldine Grundy.

“…Still don’t completely understand what’s going on,” Archie grouses. “Why aren’t we calling Sheriff Keller? Or at least bringing a couple more guys? I know he’s not your favorite, but Reggie Mantle packs a serious left hook.”

“No Reggie,” Veronica states with her usual catlike calm. “No sheriff. Just us. Now concentrate on the road, since I get the feeling it’s about to get bumpy.”

She’s not wrong. The old bridge across Sweetwater is scarred with huge cracks and, when the wind kicks up, groans ominously. Archie wrenches the wheel to the left just in time to avoid a massive hole.

As the car negotiates the crumbling bridge, Jughead peers out the window. He can see Sweetwater right through the holes in the road, the silver spiral of eddies and scrim of leaves on the surface, the widening gyre of raindrops as they hit the water.

Archie accelerates, and the Chevy makes it across the road. At the end of the suspender cables one sign proclaims its dour warning: NO SWIMMING AFTER LABOR DAY.

Jughead is propelled forward as the car slows. “There it is,” Archie says. He indicates a road sign with the numbers blurred, well known throughout Riverdale as the beginning of the lost highway. “The end of Route 40. No other way except backwards or…”

His arm waves towards the road, which winds into thick forest. The trees are pressed together like frightened children, puddling the road with bruised shadows. A rising wind blows curtains of rain and allows tantalizing glimpses of the grim destination in front of them. As Jughead peers into the inky darkness, he thinks he sees a figure moving – tall, crowned with branches. _Can’t be,_ he thinks, rolling down his window for a better view. Instantly the rain presses inside, damping his collar and face with cold fingertips.

“Shut that window, for the love of Mike. Better lock the doors too.” Archie sighs and indicates the highway ahead. “Are you ready for a pleasure drive, kids? Maybe a picnic or two? Some dancing around a May Pole in this lovely neck of the woods? Because this might be our last chance to turn back.”

Veronica opens her little clutch bag, removes a jeweled compact that clicks open with one touch, and powders her nose. “Let’s go,” she orders.

#

“Move the sacks to the west wall.” Sister Woodhouse’s voice trembles with anger. “Maybe that will teach you to practice abominations that go against the natural rule of law.” As if to punctuate that point, she pounds on the floor with a shovel.

“I already moved them once, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Dog recognizes that voice. It’s the boy he met before, the one with sunny hair and a sad smile. The one who gave him crackers and water.

_His_ human.

Propelled by an ancient and immutable force, Dog creeps forward into the basement chamber, hackles rising and a low growl rumbling his throat. Sister Woodhouse is in the middle of a long lecture about how food and rest are earned by hard work, and it’s not her fault that she’s housing a filthy pervert who’s a hardened sinner. “If I feed your belly,” she concludes triumphantly, “it will starve your soul. Do you want a hungry soul, Betty? Do you want to burn for all eternity in agony because of the temptations of the flesh on this earth? Do you know why I carried this down here? It’s a gravedigger’s shovel. We must remember how close we are to the veil of the shroud at all times.”

Betty picks up another bag. Dog can see how heavy it is, how tired the boy feels, can smell sweat and exhaustion. His slender muscles strain under the weight.

“Move quicker. You’re at a rehabilitation facility, not a summer excursion.” Sister Woodhouse pokes Betty with the shovel, making the bag fall and burst open on the concrete floor. Flour cascades up and out like a white firework, and the scene seems to freeze.

“I’m sorry,” Betty begins, but the nun explodes with anger.

“No supper! No breakfast! And you’ll begin again with those bags! I’ll have them in the corner if you’re here until midnight!”

“Could I please have a little water first?” Although Betty’s voice is soft Dog can sense the boy’s anger, throbbing red and hot.

The only answer is a savage swish of the shovel, which catches Betty on his left thigh. The boy makes no sound as he goes down on one knee, clutching his leg and mouth open in agony.

Dog is unable to wait any longer. A low growl spooling from his throat, Dog explodes from his hiding place and launches himself at Sister Woodhouse to close his jaws around the handle of the shovel. One wrench and it’s out of Sister’s hand, clattering to the floor.

There’s a flurry of choked curses and No and Stop and Help. Dog closes his teeth in Sister’s throat and, with an ancient reflex, begins to shake his prey. A pair of bony hands close around his neck, but he can feel them loose strength.

A loud clang, and the fight stops. Betty stands over Sister Woodhouse, holding the shovel. “Enough, Hot Dog,” he murmurs. “Don’t actually kill her or we really will be in the soup.” He bends suddenly, collapsing as though he’s lost the rest of his strength, and hugs Dog fiercely. “Good boy,” Betty murmurs into Dog’s ruff. “You saved me, didn’t you? Yes, you did. You're such a good boy."

It's over. The terrible fight is over. In celebration, Dog sits up and begins to lick Betty's face.

"Wow, gosh! Boy, you have some wet kisses. Okay," Betty laughs, "that's enough. Um, I don't suppose, that is, is there any chance you can find a way out of here?”

Dog seizes Betty’s sleeve between his teeth, a quick tug to say _Yes. Yes, I do know the way out._

_Follow me._

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw [Edmund Teske's portrait of Richard Soakup](http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/objects/133313/edmund-teske-richard-soakup-chicago-american-1940/), I was instantly inspired to write this story. I wanted to explore the idea of a couple who fall in love during the wrong time in history. What would that look like? And could their passion survive?
> 
> Adding the comics!version of Miss Grundy was pure indulgence. I miss that strict, fiery, talented dame. Riverdale might be a better place if she were around.
> 
> For plot purposes, I've moved the publication date of Maurice to 1951.


End file.
